


On The Edge

by The_White_Rabbit42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (If you haven't watched the finale you're gonna miss out), A touch of madness, Angst, F/M, Foreplay, Heart floofs, Humor, Poetry, Season 12 spoilers, Smut, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:07:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_White_Rabbit42/pseuds/The_White_Rabbit42
Summary: While Sam and Dean try to beat Lucifer to Cas and Kelly, you’re left behind with Crowley who isn’t acting like himself.





	On The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my 100/200 follower celebration on tumblr (@thewhiterabbit42)
> 
> Requested by: @devilsnevercry1388  
> Quote: “This must be what going mad feels like.”  
> Kink: Surprise Sex
> 
> The poetry Crowley uses is from Part II of Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. They are my absolute favorite lines from that entire piece and just jumped into my head as I was writing this.

The world sits on the edge of a precipice, the Winchesters scrambling to keep it from toppling over.  You, on the other hand, sit back at the bunker, arguing with a rather pissed off Crowley who does _not_ like having his hand attached to the furniture.  Not that you blame him.  You’d be a little miffed if your friends got a little stabby as well.  

 

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell Dean not to leave you with the king of Hell.  You might as well be telling him that one day Sam will die.  It skitters across his radar before he deftly bats it far out into the stratosphere where reminders of his own mortality have taken up residence.  For the most part, you’ve been able to avoid any close, direct contact, but everyone’s luck has to run out sometime.  

 

You just hope yours is the only one that does today.   

 

The problem isn't that you don’t like Crowley or you think he’s a danger.  It’s that you don’t know _how_ you feel about him.  The last few years have been especially confusing, the boundaries blurring between ally and enemy, and he’s taken to walking that fine line of cooperation until it benefits him to step off again.  The uncertainty puts you in dangerous territory, walking something equally as thin and fragile and you don't know anyone in their right mind who would want to star in a tightrope act without having a safety net in place.

 

Yet, out the door your friends run, though you can’t be mad at them.  Not only are they trying to stop the devil and save the world, but leaving you behind is their way of protecting you.  Leaving Crowley, however, is the one thing they are doing to cover their own hides, and you can’t blame them after the secrets the demon has kept.  

 

However, it does leave you with a royal pain in the ass.   

 

“Crowley, we’ve been over this…”  

 

Over.  And over.  And over… to the point where you’re one nerve away from finding a spell that will seal his mouth, temporarily or otherwise.  He cocks a brow as if he’s heard that and you wonder how privy he really is to your thoughts and how much he just plays dumb.  

 

“You’re not their lap dog, you know,” he tells you.  You expect for there to be a hint of disdain accompanying the phrase, but there’s nothing, save that familiar rasp and something that pushes just beyond the fringe of neutrality.  

 

“You’re right,” you agree, though what you’re conveying is far different than the portrait of the undervalued sidekick he’s trying to paint.  “I’m not.”  

 

“You’re so much more than they give you credit for,” he continues as if you haven’t even spoken.  Then again, that’s Crowley.  When all the doors he’s tried are locked, he’s persistent enough to circle back around again to see if there’s any he’s missed.  

 

He’s never tried to pit you against the Winchesters before.  Then again, you’ve never been in his sights  Just as you’ve always preferred to stay on the periphery during any dealings, he’s always seemed more than content to overlook your presence.  

 

There’s a heady moment as your eyes connect and there’s no doubt about where his attention is focused now.

 

“Always tucked away in their shadow, kept on the sidelines, and told to stay behind,” that touch of  _ something _ in his tone grows louder, and you feel your stomach flutter beneath his unwavering stare.  “The truth is, they can hide you all they want and you’re still going to steal the show.  Every.  Single. Time.”

 

Your heart picks up a few extra beats and it's a reminder of why you avoid him in the first place.  Your stomach also rumbles and the hunter in you reminds you there’s plenty of space between Crowley and the kitchen.  The woman, however, is starving in ways that go beyond not having eaten since that morning, and she is what makes you linger longer than you know is wise.

 

You expect a smug smile.  A little mocking amusement to round out the look.  Instead, he simply looks tired, worn in a way that’s beyond your understanding.  You wonder if it’s connected to the fact that you only have a single lifetime to endure when he’s had so many.  

 

You also wonder at what point timeless beings lose track of what number they’re on. 

 

Whatever the look is, it’s not one he wears well, and he is most certainly wearing on  _ you _ as he scrapes the bottom of the barrel trying to get beneath your skin.

 

“Let me up, kitten,” his tone is lined with silk that caresses over you, ensnaring more than just your hearing.  The sudden nickname has you so distracted you almost step straight off the safety of that wire.  Despite the weariness that clings to his features, there’s an energy simmering beneath the surface.  Your instincts flare, warning you that something is off, and it’s enough to keep your feet firmly planted where they belong.  

 

“I can’t let you up,” your voice comes out a little more breathy than you intend, something that does not go unnoticed.  His gaze fixes more intently on you, becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and you unconsciously shift your weight.  

 

Whatever he’s selling, you don’t want any of it.  

 

You don’t even know how you feel about the fact he lied about Lucifer.  Is it betrayal churning in the pit of your stomach when you look at him?  Is it resistance to the hope that descends now that your anger has abated, insisting that he must have had his reasons?  Or is it possible you’re unnerved at how close you came to never seeing him again?  

 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you know which one it is.  Most days, however, you don’t like to be.  Today is no exception.  

 

You rise from your seat next to him, intention clear in the way your eyes drift to the door.  

 

“Wait,” he insists, his good hand shooting out to grab you by the wrist.  Electricity sparks beneath his touch and you almost gasp at the way it shoots up your arm.  It ricochets back down the length of you, sending smaller shockwaves off within your chest and stomach.  You’re not the only one that feels it and you watch as the darks of his eyes suddenly swallow the cinnamon flecks sprinkled around the centers.  It leaves only uncharted and vast green seas staring back at you.  

 

“I can’t do this, Crowley.”  

 

You’re not sure what  _ this  _ even is, only that you don’t intend to stick around to see what he has to say.  Surprisingly, he doesn’t stop you.  You slip through his grasp with ease, a final jolt sliding through you as his fingers trail lightly over your pulse before dropping away entirely.  You can’t even look at him as you leave the room, as you focus on simply getting away. 

 

***

 

You try to eat something, but find yourself checking your phone more often than bringing food to your mouth, which only results in cold chicken and an even colder appetite.  You push your plate away, letting out a long, drawn out breath.  

 

You don’t like that you’re stuck here while your friends are off trying to outsmart the devil.  You don’t like how they feel more like family than your actual one does anymore and you’ve let them leave to defuse the most unstable nuke in existence without you.  You most certainly do not like the restless energy that thrums until you can’t sit still and your hands itch to do something other than press a button and tap a screen.  

 

Your options, however, remain limited.

 

You decide clearing the table and doing dishes is as good of one as any.  It won’t occupy your mind, but it will help keep your hands busy.  You let the water run as hot as it will go, using the scalding temperature to keep you grounded.  It’s not enough to drown out the buzzing on the edge of your senses that rises steadily, culminating in an electrifying crescendo. 

 

It’s strange.  You can't remember ever being this keyed up.  Not during the apocalypse.  Not even when Amara was on the brink of destroying existence.  Your friends have come back heroes from worse odds and yet you’re coming apart, stitch by unraveled stitch.  It’s more than that, though.  You feel as if you’re slowly stepping onto the wrong side of sane until even the simple task of washing silverware requires far more concentration than necessary.  

 

By the time you realize you’re not actually going crazy, it’s too late.  

 

He’s already there by the way the hair on the back of your neck stands on end and his presence crackles on the air.  It makes it harder to breathe, or maybe it’s just the sudden realization of how much trouble you’re in depending what side of the line Crowley decides he’s on.

 

“I’ve tried so hard to stop this from happening,” his smooth voice reaches out from across the room.  You have no idea what he’s talking about and with everything that’s happened, you’re not sure if you should be reaching for a weapon, running, or offering him a glass of scotch as a peace offering.

 

“Day after day, day after day, we stuck, nor breath nor motion…”  His voice starts as a murmur, words taking on a smooth, seductive cadence that speaks of something long-endured which rises palpably in the air around him.  

 

“As idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean...” 

 

You’ve considered the possibility he went insane the moment he decided to alter the plan to put Lucifer back in the cage.  The fact that he’s speaking English but still not making a lick of sense is certainly not helping his case.  Then again, at least he’s saying something, since the only way you can track him is through his words.  

 

The way he moves, however, has instincts whispering with warning.  You recognize the feeling.  It echoes of cases that have slipped beyond your control and you immediately still. 

 

“Water, water, everywhere,” he continues, his presence a slow stalk that inches closer and closer.  If you had to guess where he was, it would be just passing the kitchen table.   

 

“And all the boards did shrink…”  His voice reappears much nearer than that and he’s closing in faster than you anticipate.  “Water, water, everywhere…”  

 

The silence that lapses is deafening.  You’re on edge, ears straining, but the only sound you can make out is the rapid beating of your heart.  There’s a heady rush as the air around you becomes charged, thick, overwhelming to the point it’s almost suffocating.  

 

This time when he speaks, he’s close enough for his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear.

 

“Nor any drop to drink.”

 

His hands move to the counter on both sides of you, and you can only hope this all just some elaborate plan to unnerve you and not  _ actual _ insanity.  

 

“I have tried so hard to be good,” he murmurs, his nose pressing lightly against the back of your ear just before he inhales.  Deeply.  

 

The fact the king of Hell is smelling you right now suggests his eggs are, indeed, a little more scrambled than usual.

 

Your body is just as confused as your mind, adrenaline rushing out to combat the threat even as your stomach flutters with excitement.  Your hand, however, instinctively closes over a steak knife, the action hidden beneath the foamy layer of bubbles that sway across the water’s surface.  

 

You wonder how much of a head start you could get if you catch him someplace good with it.  

 

“Put the knife down.”  This is neither a suggestion nor a threat as if he, too, can hear that song of dissonance that often hums when he’s around.

 

You do as you’re told, the weapon slipping through your grasp before you pull your hands out and place them on the rim of the sink in plain sight. You know you’re caught.  The question is, what is he going to do with you?

 

“Turn around,” he instructs and, as with the knife, you have no choice but to obey.  He steps back, allowing you room to move and as soon as you do, you find yourself face to face with something unexpected.  

 

“Crowley?”  This isn’t just a question of what he’s doing.  You’re also wondering just who it is you’re looking at because the Crowley you know is many things.  Calm.  Collected.  Clever.  At least three steps ahead of everyone.  The man in front of you?  Looks like whatever thread of logic tying his plan together has become significantly frayed.  

 

The only time you’d seen him this out of sorts was when he’d been hit with a spell that melded his mind with his vessel’s until each personality was wrestling for dominance.  You can’t help but wonder if Lucifer had done more than just try to put him in the ground.  

 

**“So this is what going mad feels like,”** he remarks, and it’s the last thing you want to hear.  There’s an odd glow in his eyes, one that echoes with the same manic buzzing skittering between the small gap between your bodies.  You don’t know what it is, only that it leaves goosebumps racing across your skin in not an entirely unpleasant way.

 

“I’m worried about you.”  You pause, watching as the darks of his eyes swallow more color in response to your words.  “You’re not acting like yourself.”

 

“Or perhaps I am myself more than I’ve ever been,” he counters, his fingers caressing your cheek.  There’s an intimacy beneath your touch that has your eyes going wide, and once again your instincts are telling you to freeze.  He pushes your hair back from your face, tucking it behind your ear before fingertips dip down along the curve of your jaw.  That same electricity sparks again, this time jolting straight into your pulse until it’s forking through your system to the point your nerve endings are positively tingling.  

 

You do your best to ignore the rush of blood that accompanies it, though you’re aware most is rising to the the surface in a heated flush that is not just limited to your cheeks.

 

“What do you want?” How you manage to ask is beyond you.  Coherent thought is a concept swiftly abandoning you, as is your ability to take in any air.  

 

He smiles, and you have a feeling whatever he’s about to say is not going to bring you any relief.  

 

“Just a taste,” he insists, and there’s no doubt about what he’s after as his gaze drops to your lips.  He doesn’t wait for a response, his hand taking you by the chin to guide you toward him.  He does move slowly enough, however, to let you know he  _ is _ asking.

 

The question, though, appears time limited.  

 

Your mind is present enough to understand this is a terrible,  _ terrible _ idea, and it transfers that memo to your hands which fly up to his chest as he starts to lean in.  Pushing him away, however, is just as decisive as pulling him to you, and once again you cannot move, too scared to leave the safe confines of that careful line in either direction.  

 

It doesn’t stop his lips from meeting yours.  It doesn’t prevent the searing heat that unexpectedly blossoms beneath the contact.  It most certainly is not stopping it from unfurling across your cheeks, creeping down the length of you or melding with that previous warmth that still has color singing across skin.  Once together, it sinks lower, slipping beneath the surface, and sending tendrils through your system as if in search of something.  

 

You have a feeling whatever it’s looking for is a lot more than  _ just a taste _ .

 

You feel your legs grow shaky, his tongue sweeping languidly along your lower lip before he draws it into his mouth.  The way he suckles it, though, is what has your balance faltering.  You almost lose it completely with the gentle nibble that follows and as before, the only thing keeping you from plummeting over the side is that sustained, cautious, lack of response.  

 

He doesn’t try to push for more, but the pressure of his mouth is increasing, that persistent edge within his gaze beginning to enter his movements.  With every subsequent kiss, he seems less satisfied, as if the taste he seeks only parches him instead of bringing relief.  

You’re proud of yourself for keeping it together, for not letting your senses become ensnared by the scent of his cologne or the lingering taste of scotch that transfers indirectly to your tongue.  You do not succumb to the warmth of his body that hovers so close to yours, and you convince yourself if you can just hold on to something, you can keep keep from getting swept away.   

 

Unfortunately, your fingers decide that something happens to be Crowley.  

 

They slip beneath the lapel of his suit, clutching the smooth fabric.  You’re not sure if you’re the one that’s dragging him closer, or if he’s taken it as a sign of encouragement and is now moving toward you.  Either way, the small gap between your bodies disappears and the world shifts a little sideways as his hips meet yours.  The moment he backs you into the sink, your stomach abandons ship, dropping somewhere beneath the floor, and you’re not certain if the noise that catches in the back of your throat is one of alarm or anticipation.  

 

Whatever it is, it spurs him to action, and the fingers beneath your chin break away to thread through the back of your hair.  The way he handles you is tender, bordering on the familiarity of a lover’s touch, and the unexpected gentleness has your heart fluttering in ways of which you don’t approve.  

 

Gently he guides your head back, mouth breaking away from yours, but instead of ending the madness, he takes it one step further.  Lips and tongue dance over your jaw before dipping down the side of your neck where teeth take hold of your pulse and tug. 

 

“Crowley,” you gasp, his name just another shade of gray on this spectrum of ambiguity you’re caught in. 

 

Part of you knows you shouldn’t be doing this.  He’s a demon, the king of Hell, and everything about those two things, and the fact you’re practically a Winchester, should have you ending this.  Yet, it’s also not that simple.  

 

He has stood with you against greater evils.  He has saved your life on more than one occasion.  He has even gone out of his way to protect you.   _ You _ .  Someone who really  _ is  _ just a sidekick to the more important characters in this ongoing cluster for which Chuck has set the stage 

 

“Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” he rasps, soothing over where he’s just nipped.  “Tell me to stop and I’ll leave.”

 

Desire roughens the smooth edges of his words, but as he draws back for a fraction of second, you notice his voice and gaze are at odds with each other.  A fleeting glimpse is all you catch, but you almost swear his eyes hold a plea for you to end this.  Yet, his lips are descending down the other side of your neck, his tongue teasing its way to your ear where it grazes along the outer edge.  

 

The moment you feel his teeth upon your earlobe, your resolve to remain neutral vanishes. 

You grab the sides of his face, fingers splaying over coarse stubble as you pull his head back.  His breath grows as still as yours does, or perhaps it’s just the entire world stopping in that brief moment before you give your response.  Even you’re not certain what it will be until the words are tumbling from your lips.  

 

“Don’t you  _ dare  _ stop,” you warn, stepping straight off that line into the unknown as your lips rush forward to meet his.  Your permission strips away the barriers of his control, his tongue hastily pushing into your mouth, eager to explore.  

 

Your fingers card through his hair, holding his head to yours as if afraid he may pull away at any second.  His hands, however, are everywhere, rising up your back, sliding around your side, ghosting over the sides of your breasts before smoothing down the length of you.  They land briefly at your waist, fingers taking possession in the form of a light squeeze before slipping down around the back of you.  He grabs you right where your thighs meet the curve of your ass, and he takes a moment to appreciate this part of you before deftly hoisting you into the air.  

 

You fold against him, your arms resting on his shoulders and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, trapping his increasingly hardening length between your bodies.  You’re vaguely aware he’s taking you somewhere, but that tongue of his is doing things to yours that makes it hard to think of anything else.  It’s not until he sets you down on something solid that you realize he’s brought you to the kitchen table.  

 

You take some time to get a taste of him, but it’s clear neither of you are satisfied with just this.  You need to feel his hands on your skin, his body pressed to yours, and neither of those is happening with how much clothing you both still have on.  Your fingers begin to pluck at the buttons on your shirt when his hands come up and cover yours.

 

“Allow me,” he offers, and a sudden chill washes over you as your entire top layer disappears in the blink of an eye.  

 

He hardly gives your bare skin a glance, foregoing sight to take in this new aspect of you through touch.  His mouth comes down on your shoulder and he places hot, open mouthed kisses along it before making his way lower.  Teeth and tongue come out to add taste to his exploration, and they expertly tease along the ridge of your collarbone, drawing from you an appreciative hum.  

 

His hands slide up to the band of your bra, though only one of them takes hold of the fabric before deftly undoing the hooks.  A smile tugs at your lips.  It’s such a subtle and very Crowley-esque move.  

 

“Show off,” you tease, and for a moment, he looks like himself again, a cocky smirk stretching across his features as his head hovers just over the swell of your breasts.  

 

“If you think that’s impressive, I’m just getting started.”

 

His gaze never leaves yours as his hands resume their course, moving up behind your shoulders with that same, feather-light touch.  He hooks his fingers beneath the straps, drawing them down your arms before he removes the article altogether.  The sudden coolness has your nipples hardening, and even as he tosses the garment over his shoulder, his eyes are still on yours and that confident grin remains in place.

 

The promise that gleams within hazel breathes vitality back into his features, and that heat burning its way through your blood pools straight between your legs.

 

The king has returned and the way his stare slides down the length of you, his entire kingdom now sits before him.  

 

His eyes linger, as if committing every curve to memory, before his hands reach up to cup your breasts.  You exhale, a soft sigh passing your lips from the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.  Tension releases though there’s a different one slowly growing in its place as his thumbs tease over hardened nubs.  A band of pleasure begins to stretch beneath your stomach, growing tauter as his mouth dips down, tongue teasing languid circles around sensitive peaks.   

Your hands splay out along his lower back, and luxury resonates in the smoothness of the garment that whispers through your touch.  You grab a fistful of fabric, hastily untucking it from his pants before delving within to grab his ass.  It’s firmer than you expect, and your fingers take ownership before pulling him tight against you.  

 

The table begins to sway as you roll your hips against him, a soft creaking underlying your gasps and sighs that punctuate the silence.  You feel him twitch against you, a low moan rumbling in the back of his throat.  

 

“Easy, kitten, or I’m liable to just bend you over and take you right here,” he warns.  He’s only partially joking.  The energy beneath his skin suddenly spills over onto yours, and the frantic cadence to which it beats leaves you wondering just how he hasn’t just taken you already. 

 

“Then why don’t you?” You question, enjoying the way his eyes flutter as you rub yourself against him again.  

 

“This isn’t exactly how I imagined this.”  Everything gives a sudden shift, apology lacing his words and vying for a spot within his gaze.  As he drinks in the sight of you -- your lips swollen from his attention, your skin ablaze with your own heightened desire, the way your sex is so wet the dampness is spreading to his pants --  there’s an undeniable thirst that overtakes everything other than the driving need to quench it. 

 

“I’m not complaining,” you breathe, and his stare turns wholly  _ un _ apologetic as you take hold of him through his trousers, thumb smoothing over the tip straining through the dark material.  

 

“Eager, are we?” He chuckles.  “So am I.  Though perhaps we should move someplace a little more comfortable?”

 

You expect him to magic you into your bed.   _ Any  _ bed, really.  What you don’t expect is to find yourself in his lap in the middle of the library.  There’s just enough room for you both in the giant, antique leather armchair you’ve dubbed  _ the throne _ by how he never fails to commandeer it when around.  

 

“I may have imagined  _ this _ however…” You blink and your last remaining article of clothing disappears along with all of his.  “On a number of occasions.”  

 

You’ve always wondered what lay beneath that suit of his.  It takes you a moment to wrap your head around the fact that for a moment, it’s all yours.   

 

Your hands take in the lean planes of his chest, smoothing over the tops of his shoulders before dipping down along the corded muscle of his biceps.  They come to rest at the crook of his elbows, and you look up at him through lashes with a combination of coyness and shyness.  

 

The latter is something you’re not used to feeling, though you suppose you’re also unaccustomed to sitting astride an actual king’s lap.  

 

“Touch yourself, darling.  Show me how you like it.”

 

A thrill sings straight down the center of you, and you’re not sure what turns you on more: the sensual lilt his voice takes on or the wickedness that burns within his stare.  You want to obey him, but you are all too familiar with what your touch is like, and you have waited far too long to feel his.  

 

“I have a better idea,” you tell him, lips curling carnally as you raise off the chair.   He tilts his head curiously as you turn around before lowering yourself again.  You settle your legs on either side of him and his breath hitches as you sit back down, intentionally rubbing yourself against him in the process.

 

“Well, you certainly have my attention,” he murmurs, his hands gliding along your inner thighs before coming up to rest on your hips.  The sensation fuels your excitement, and it’s a concentrated effort to keep your movements slow and steady.  Your hand overlays his, index finger lining up tip to tip, before you pluck his grip from your side and place it over your mound.

 

“You want to know what I like?” You purr, dragging his finger along your folds, wetting it with your slick.  “I like the thought of you touching me.”  

 

“As do I,” he drawls, his free hand sliding up over your stomach, brushing along your rib cage before finally closing over your breast.  You let out a whimper and guide the finger in your possession to your clit.  You start him with slow, sensual circles, teasingly light in pressure.  His other hand takes a sensitive bud between fingertips, alternating between rolling and gentle tugs.  

 

The combined sensations has you mewling and the embers of your desire catching fire.  You allow him to take the reins, rewarding his efforts by rocking back against him.  You relish the way his breathing begins to pick up, matching yours as an increasing tempo of ragged gasps interspersed with moans.  

 

“Is this really the way you like it?” He rasps, his tongue flicking out around the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps skittering across skin.  “Or are you someone who likes things a little rougher?”

 

He pinches your nipple harder, your pleasure soaring as he simultaneously increases the pressure with the finger between your legs.  

 

“I like anything, so long as you’re the one doing it.”

 

You’re not sure where the confession comes from, only that it’s stumbling past your lips faster than you can catch it.  His cock twitches against you and the moment you realize what buttons you’ve pushed, you can’t resist hitting hitting them again.

 

“I’ve always wanted you to touch me,” you continue, “To know what it was like to have your hand down my pants.”  

 

Deep down, you always wanted it to be him fucking you into those cheap motel mattresses, instead of all the random drunks from the bar.  

 

The snarl that rises in the back of his throat suggests he does, indeed, hear far more than he lets on, and his teeth flash out across your neck, his nip wholly ungentle.  His finger picks up speed and you let out a whine, your legs beginning to shudder as those flames lick more insistently at your core.

 

You’re so close, teetering on the brink of release, when you feel his breath fall heavily against your ear.

 

“I’m going to show you exactly what you’ve been missing,” he promises, and it’s the decadent silk within his tone that ignites your senses, sending those flames into a crescendo of heated bliss that sings across your system.  

 

As your walls shudder around nothing, however, you feel more than a little incomplete.  

 

You barely finish coming when the world shifts around you in a blur.  You don’t even have time to blink when you find yourself face to face with him once more.  The odd glow remains in his eyes but it’s grown so much brighter, pushing the fringe of feral as he grabs you by the back of head and drags your lips back to his.  

 

His tongue slides over yours and as he’s in the process of reclaiming your mouth his hands shift.  The fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips are as demanding as his kiss.  His cock is positively throbbing, and you reach between the two of you to give him some relief.  There’s a half-growl, half-moan that hums against your lips as you work your hand over the shaft, sliding up around his tip which is dripping with pre-cum.  

 

His grip over you tightens as he jerks you up to your knees.  You know what he wants, and the fact he wants it  _ now  _ has your legs trembling with anticipation.  

 

The manic energy buzzing beneath his skin hits a fever pitch as he lines himself up with your entrance.  His fingers become possessive, tips pushing to the point it’s almost painful as he pulls you down upon him. The movement is faster than you expect, and he swallows the sharp cry you give with his mouth.  You’re so wet, the only resistance he encounters is from the fact it’s been awhile since you’ve slept with anyone.  

 

After a few, short thrusts he’s fully sheathed and there’s a satisfied rumble that spreads through his chest.  He holds you there a moment, allowing you to adjust, or perhaps he, like you, is simply taking the time to savor how he feels inside you.  You can’t remember the last time you felt this good, your walls stretched to the max, but not uncomfortably so.  It brings with it a feeling of completeness you’ve always been missing with other men.  

 

You have a feeling it has nothing to with Crowley’s size, though it certainly is  _ kingly _ . 

 

His hands slip down the curve of your ass, resuming their insistent grip as he urges you to start.  You begin to move slowly, enjoying the feel of him languidly dragging across your walls and the way he perfectly hits that sensitive spot inside from this angle.  The moment his grip passes the threshold of pain, however, you decide you’ve both waited long enough.  

 

The next time you raise up, you take a moment to tease his tip along your entrance, in and out, in then out, before abruptly slamming down onto him.  You catch him by surprise and are rewarded with a guttural half-grunt, half-groan.  You repeat the movement, and this time he moans, deep and loud, and before you can do it again he’s taking control, thrusting up into you with slow but hard strokes.  

 

The sudden roughness awakens something in you, and you realize just how much you need this --  _ him _ .  Your nails rake over his back, leaving raised paths of pink in their wake.  Your teeth take hold of his bottom lip and you don’t just tug, you bite.  The next breath he takes hisses in through his teeth and for a moment you’re afraid it’s too hard.  

 

“The kitten has claws,” he murmurs in approval, picking up the pace.  

 

The chair begins to rock beneath you, wood groaning in protest, and every now and then there’s a high pitched squeak as the entire seat jerks across the floor.  His hand flashes up to the back of your head, pulling your hair and drawing you back, exposing your throat to him.  His teeth leave a trail of stings in their wake and the sensations he’s creating has heat lapping at your core once more.

 

Your eyes slip closed, and you’re amazed at how fast he already has you ascending back up that blissful summit.  Everything suddenly stills, from the noises unconsciously slipping through your lips to your very breath as you focus entirely on him.  The way he’s pistoning in and out of you.  How it feels as he hits that inner wall whenever he gives a particularly deep thrust, burying himself as far as he can go.  From how surprisingly warm his body is to the feel of his skin against yours, you have an inexplicable urge to remember every detail you can about this encounter.  

 

“Look at me,” his voice breaks through the riptide of sensation you’re all but lost in, drawing you back.  

 

You do as he asks and something shifts.  That driving need he’s been battling slides a little further beneath the surface, his thrusts slowing as his hand comes up and cups your cheek.  The thumb that grazes along your lower lip is tender, his penetrating stare speaking with an emotion far less casual than you’d ever expect from him.  

 

He doesn’t just want you, he wants  _ all  _ of you, and that does more for you than seeing him wild with desire ever could.  

“You are perfection,” he marvels, and the way he looks at you it’s like he’s seeing you for the first time.  In many ways you feel the same, this man before you almost a stranger in comparison to the one you thought you knew.  The weariness still clinging to the lining of green has a different word whispering across your mind:  _ human _ .

 

You don't have time to dwell on the revelation.  His thumb brushes across your clit, causing you to shudder as sparks shoot from beneath his touch.  You clench around him, wanting this to feel as good as he’s making it feel for you, and you realize just how little you’ve given in return.

 

It's time to fix that.

 

“Enjoy the ride,  _ sire _ ,” you tell him, loving the way desire darkens in his gaze at the term.  You give a few slow roll of your hips before you begin to raise up off him, bouncing on his cock at a steadily increasing pace.  

 

He allows you to take over, eyes riveted to your features.  He’s drinking in every detail, watching every nuance and expression as if enraptured.  Perhaps, like you, he feels the need to commit you to memory.  Whatever his reason, he pays more attention to you now than he has the entire time he’s known you, and that bundle of nerves is receiving the majority of it, his finger swirling around and around as he continuously adjusts the pressure.

 

It isn't long before both your sensitive spots are singing, from one of his tips or from another.  The symphony he creates is carnal, filled with decadence and heat, much of which flows from his stare alone.  He’s proud of the song he’s creating, the notes striking chords within him as well that have him humming right along side you.  He holds back, however, waiting for your blissful tune to finish before he writes the rest of his.

 

The chorus is rapidly approaching, a crescendo building until you’re standing at that edge once again.  You’re so close you can peer right over it, but as your eyes slip shut in preparation for the fall, his voice draws you back.

 

“Look at me,” he rasps and you realize he wants to watch more than just your features when you tumble over the brink.  You open your eyes again and you’re surprised at the depth in which green has become illuminated, a stark contrast to the darkness in his pupils that are so vast and wide.  Impulse takes you by the hand, drawing your palm against his cheek.  As an unexpected tenderness settles within your chest, you realize just how deep you are in this.  

 

The way the sentiment echoes within his gaze, you also realize you’re not alone.  

 

It takes you a few moments to work your way back to that peak.  You’re still wrapping your mind around the fact this is, by far, the most intimate thing you’ve ever done with  _ anyone _ .  You manage to maintain the eye contact, daunting as it is, as you line yourself back up with that ledge.  The sweet symphony sends its final wave of notes singing through you and you take that final leap, your movements stuttering as you drop straight into the heated verdant waters that continue to stare at you. 

 

This time, when you come you feel so full and whole, it almost aches.  

 

You have yet to hit the ground again when his hands slip down your waist and you can tell he’s grappling to remain in control.  His grip is bruising, and suddenly he’s slamming into you at such a breakneck pace you can’t even make a sound.  The impassioned gleam within his gaze carries with it that touch of madness, releasing it in a final, bright burst as soon as his rhythm grows unsteady.  

 

He gives a few final thrusts, his hips rising off the chair as he pushes into you as far as he can go.  His cock pulsates before spilling his seed inside of you, something you don’t normally allow anyone else to do.  

 

Perhaps Crowley’s crazy is catching.  

 

Your body melts against him.  You know you should move, but you can’t seem to extricate yourself from him,  You don't want to let him go.  You don't want this moment to end.  You know beyond a doubt there’s no going back from here, but you’re not sure what going forward means either, and hiding a few more moments while you’re both in limbo seems far less intimidating.

 

“It’s always been you.”  He breathes his ragged confession against your neck and this time the entire universe grinds to a halt.  It’s probably as close as he’ll ever be able to come to saying the three words that hold more power to create or destroy than any spell or ritual ever could.  For the king of Hell, this is immense, and brings with it a startling burst of clarity, that has all but a few pieces of today’s puzzle sliding into place. 

 

You swallow, head slowly drawing back so you can look him in the eye.

 

“Crowley…” Your tongue almost fumbles at the rising emotion that threatens to cut off your words.  “What’s going on?”

 

The smile he gives is open, full of adoration and a sadness that squeezes around more than just your throat.  It feeds the fear rising in your chest, and you can’t help but feel like something awful is going to happen.  It makes your grip over him grow tighter, more possessive, and now you have no intentions of letting him go.    

 

“For once, I’m going to do the right thing,” he says, an unmistakable apology resonating beneath his tone.  A heavy sense of foreboding washes over you.  Logic becomes bypassed and you no longer care what it is he’s talking about.  All you can think about is the sudden, visceral need to tell him no one else has ever meant anything to you, either.  It’s always been him.  

 

A sudden weight dampens his features, one that has weariness returning ten fold while something suspiciously looking like guilt and regret mutes his stare.  You have a feeling you don’t need to say a word to him, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.  The moment you open your mouth, however, he vanishes, leaving you with nothing but the fading warmth of his heat on leather and the chilly bunker air.  


End file.
